


We're Different Now

by sassbandit



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1940s, Anal Sex, Body Dysphoria, Consentacles, Crack Treated Seriously, Cuddling & Snuggling, Enthusiastic Consentacles, Fix-It, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Oral Sex, Sharing a Bed, Super Soldier Serum, Tentacles, Touch-Starved, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 00:28:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14032179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassbandit/pseuds/sassbandit
Summary: "Told you I was different," Steve says, trying to make it sound like a joke but not really succeeding."Told you I don't care. You're still you, whatever they did to you." He throws himself at Steve and hugs him hard. "You coulda told me," he says.Ever since the serum, Steve's been uncomfortable in his own skin. Ever since Azzano, so has Bucky.Written in response to the prompt: "Steve has tentacles as a side effect of the serum, but they only appear when he's topping Bucky."





	We're Different Now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lucifuge5](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucifuge5/gifts).



It takes Bucky a while to notice that while he's been sneaking away to the edges of camp, sleepless and jittery, feeling like his skin's crawling and his inside are tied in knots and he can't bear to be around anyone, Steve's been acting just as weird.

It's a warm day and the camp they've wound up at, well behind the front line, has actual showers. The men are stripping down, racing to get clean, but Steve's sitting on his bunk going through his pack and sorting through his meagre collection of spare socks and pencil stubs. He hasn't even taken his jacket off.

"You coming?" Bucky says.

"You go," Steve replies, not looking up. "I'll have one later."

In the field, when Bucky's not taking the night watch, he crawls into the shelter-half he shares with Steve and lets Steve curl around him until his breath evens out and Bucky can slip away from under his arm. One time Bucky tried to sling his arm over Steve, pull Steve in against his chest like when Steve was smaller, but Steve went rigid and quickly turned over, nudging Bucky until he rolled over on his other side. Steve had taken a long time to fall asleep, that night.

Ever since Azzano, Bucky's skin feels itchy, burning, like it's being stretched too tight. When he looks at Steve, sometimes he catches him scratching under his collar or flexing his shoulders, shrugging and twisting them under his uniform, like maybe he feels the same way. When Steve sits by the campfire, he sits hunched over himself, knees pulled in tight, and he flinches when Bucky sits close enough for their thighs to touch.

"You're not okay," Bucky says under his breath, quiet enough so Dum Dum and Morita can't hear him over their card game. 

"Don't know what you mean," Steve says, and stands up, moving away.

"They did things to me," Bucky says quietly, into the dark. They're in lodgings in London and he and Steve are sharing a room: two narrow beds and chintz curtains over the blackout.

"I know." Steve's voice is a whisper.

Bucky takes a moment, gets his words in line. "I think there's something inside me still. I can feel it in my guts. How 'bout you?"

Steve doesn't say anything, and doesn't say anything, and then he says, "I'm not cold any more."

Steve was always cold, before the war. His ma said his circulation wasn't so good. When they tucked themselves in together under one bedcover in the winter, Bucky always let Steve wriggle his toes in between Bucky's calves and slide his freezing hands up inside Bucky's sweater. Hadn't taken them long to find other ways to keep warm, too. They'd fit together well, Bucky wrapping himself around Steve's body, skin to skin, covering him and breathing warm under the blankets while they'd rubbed against each other.

"Is it weird, being big?" Bucky asks.

"Yeah," Steve sighs.

The next night, after a day of briefings and trying to find their way around a city that seems to defy all their navigation skills, Bucky waits until Steve turns out the light and says, "My skin feels funny sometimes. Like it's burning up." Steve doesn't say anything, so Bucky continues. "And cramps. You get those?"

"You should've taken a medical discharge," Steve mutters. 

They'd offered him one, offered all the POWs who'd been tortured a ticket back home. Bucky had turned it down. "Nuh uh," he says. "Who'd have your back if I did that? Anyway, I don't see you lining up for sick call."

"I'm not sick. I'm the  _opposite_  of sick."

"Sure you are."

Next morning, Steve waits until Bucky's gone to the bathroom to get dressed. Bucky comes back to find him tying his tie. He pauses in the doorway to look him up and down, letting his gaze linger. They neither of them feel right in their bodies, but maybe... 

Steve looks away.

It's not much consolation that Steve is just as skittish around Agent Carter. For once there's a dame who appreciates Steve and isn't afraid to show it, but every time she does, Steve backs away, making excuses. Bucky has to fight a flash of searing anger.  _You did this to him,_  he thinks.  _You messed him up._  

The worst of it is, Bucky thinks if Steve hadn't gotten messed up, he might've been just as interested in her as she is in him. Might've had a chance with her – a chance of a normal life, if they made it home. Not much chance of normal for any of them now.

Carter aside, Bucky's still pretty popular with the ladies. While Steve's at the War Office, Bucky flirts his way into the back room of a pub and manages to acquire a bottle of brandy in exchange for a pile of GI rations. Back at their lodgings, he uncorks the bottle and pours a glass, sipping it as he takes his shoes off. 

He's sitting on his bed, stripped down to his undershirt with a pillow propped behind his back, reading a detective story when Steve returns. Bucky reaches for the second tumbler on the bedstand. "Drink with me?" he says with his most disarming smile.

"I can't get drunk any more," Steve says, frowning.

"Yeah?" Bucky says. It's not often Steve volunteers something like that, but he doesn't push the matter for now. "Can you keep a pal company while he does?"

Steve relaxes a little from his on-parade bearing and smiles back half-heartedly. "Sure," he says. He pauses a moment, looking sidelong at Bucky, then takes off his shoes and his uniform jacket and loosens his tie. Bucky hands Steve his drink and scooches over, making room on the bed.

With the lamp glowing on the side table and the sound of someone's gramophone filtering in from down the hall, they're all set for a nice easy evening. They talk companionably about army stuff, about what sort of trouble the other commandos have been getting into, about Howard Stark's ridiculous inventions and the bad food at the canteens. The bottle sits between them, propped upright between Bucky's thigh and Steve's, and they refill their glasses from time to time.

They're a few drinks in when Bucky leans against Steve, resting his head on Steve's shoulder. For a moment it's comfortable, feels natural even if Steve's shoulder's less bony than it used to be, then Steve tenses and tries to pull away.

"Hey, don't," Bucky says, and reaches over with his free hand to pat Steve reassuringly on the chest. "You're comfortable."

"You're drunk," Steve says.

"Gettin' there." He's really only a little tipsy, but he's enjoying the buzz and the excuse to lean against Steve. For a moment he thinks, what if he  _hadn't_ been able to get drunk? What if they'd taken that from him, like they had from Steve? He feels suddenly sad. "Hey, pal," he says.

"Yeah, Buck?"

"I'm sorry you can't get drunk," he says. 

He's not that drunk himself, he's not, but the brandy probably has at least something to do with him turning toward Steve and pressing his face into Steve's shirt. He breathes deep, taking in a lungful of Steve's wool-and-soap-and-sweat smell. And miracle of miracles, Steve's arm comes up and around Bucky's body, pulling him in close and holding him there.

Steve keeps talking about Stark and his... something, Bucky's not really paying much attention except to the rumble of Steve's voice and the rise and fall of his chest. He could just stay here all night. That'd be nice. He feels okay like this – even the skin across his shoulders feels soothed where Steve's arm lies across it. But before long he finds himself yawning. He tries to hide it, but Steve notices.

"Time to hit the hay?" Steve asks.

"Nah, I'm alright." Bucky shifts and re-settles himself, letting his fingers slip between the buttons of Steve's shirt, stroking gently against the undershirt and feeling the warmth of Steve's skin through it. Damn right Steve's not cold any more.

"Bucky..." Steve says, warily.

"Shut up, Rogers," Bucky mumbles into his shirt.

"I'm not... I'm not like I was before."

"Thought I told you to can it."

Steve shakes his head. "I'm  _different_ , Buck. I'm not..."

Bucky straightens up, looks him in the eye. "You're still you." He gets in close, just a fraction of an inch from Steve's face, and tries to make himself sound as sure of this as Steve ever sounded of anything. "You're still you."

"Inside, maybe."

"You think I care about anything else?"

"Okay," Steve says, and closes his eyes. For a moment it looks like he's giving in, then he opens them again and there's determination there. He sits up quickly and presses a kiss against Bucky's lips, little more than a dry peck. Bucky wants to chase after it, see if he can make it something more, but Steve slides a hand over Bucky's where it's tangled in the buttons of his shirt and says, "You wanna see?"

Of course Bucky wants to see. Steve's hand stays curled around Bucky's as he unbuttons Steve's shirt, then tugs it out of his pants. Steve pulls his tie off and folds it carefully, then the shirt joins it. Steve's sitting there in just his sleeveless undershirt, the olive-drab cotton not doing much to hide his physique. Bucky's eyes widen involuntarily. It's not like he didn't know Steve was bigger now, but his arms are _big_ , and his chest... Jesus.

What the hell, Bucky thinks. He kneels up and straddles Steve's thighs. He's positioned for a prime view, front row seat. Steve fidgets with the hem of his undershirt, then he sets his jaw in that way he has, like he's daring Bucky to make something of it, and pulls the shirt off over his head.

There's a lot of Steve. A _lot_. Bucky blinks a couple of times, trying to reconcile the body he's seeing with the one he used to know. But it's still Steve in there, and it's still Steve's face with that crease between his eyebrows and the flush he gets when he's trying not to show he's scared. Bucky reaches out with both hands, takes hold of Steve's upper arms, and says, "See? Still you."

It's a long time since he's had his hands on anyone's bare skin but his own. He smooths his palms down Steve's biceps and up again. Bucky's hands are callused, but Steve's skin is smooth and hairless. His chest too – Bucky remembers Steve's ma always telling him to eat the crusts of his bread, but it seems like not even the serum could put hair on Steve's chest. He's not so different from how he used to be. 

Steve's frozen, not moving as Bucky examines him, except for his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. Bucky runs his fingers across Steve's collarbones, feels the broad surface of his chest and the way the curves of the muscles fit under his hands. He lets his gaze drop to Steve's stomach, the ridges of muscle there. Steve tenses, and – _huh_. So that's what he's all worked up about. 

There are dark splotches of discolored skin, greyish purple like bruises, down the sides of Steve's abdomen, disappearing under his belt. Bucky traces over them gently with his fingertips and Steve shudders. 

"You're hurt," Bucky says. "How did –"

But Steve shakes his head and when Bucky looks closer he can see that they're not bruises at all. The color is too regular and the surface of them feels different, the skin thicker and a little rough.

"Buck," Steve says, his voice sounding strangled.

"What... Steve, what did they do to you?"

"I don't know."

Bucky tugs at Steve's waistband on one side, pulling it down to see how far the marks go. "Let me see," he says. He's glad when Steve undoes his own belt and pushes his pants down, because Bucky doesn't know what he would have done if Steve'd said no. He needs to see what they've done to him, what it is he's been trying to hide if it's not just his physique.

Bucky backs up, letting Steve get his pants down low enough to show the marks all down his sides, spreading to his thighs. They get darker below the waist, and bigger. The largest ones are about size of eggs, slightly raised from the skin around them. A blotchy pattern spreads out from them, fading into faint mauve speckles around the edges. 

"Told you I was different," Steve says, trying to make it sound like a joke but not really succeeding.

"Told you I don't care. You're still you, whatever they did to you." He throws himself at Steve and hugs him hard. "You coulda told me," he says.

It's Steve who starts kissing Bucky, pressing his lips just under Bucky's ear then working his way around to his mouth. This time it's more than a peck, and Bucky's easily drawn in, letting his tongue slide across Steve's lips. He can't believe he's gone so long without this. 

Neither of them's more than half dressed, and Steve's got nothing on but his pants around his knees. Before long it's impossible to ignore the fact that they're both hard. Steve snakes his hand down to undo Bucky's fly and get his hand on his dick. They've done this enough times, without feeling the need to talk about it – it's comfort, and pleasure, and friendship, and if it's anything more they haven't talked about  _that_  either. Steve knows how Bucky likes to be touched, and Bucky knows Steve just as well. 

After they clean themselves up with Steve's handkerchief, Steve untangles his uniform trousers from around his ankles and hangs them up, and Bucky strips down to his shorts too. Bucky pulls down the bedcovers and holds them back in wordless invitation, raising his eyebrow at Steve as he does so.

Steve looks over at his own narrow bed, then at Bucky's. "C'mon, punk," Bucky says, and pats the mattress.

The bed's narrow, but no narrower than what they used to have back in Brooklyn. It's just that Steve's bigger now. Bucky reaches to switch off the lamp, and when he rolls back he nudges Steve and says, "Turn over."

As Bucky puts his arm around Steve to pull him in close he understands why Steve hadn't wanted to be held before. The dark patches on his skin are right under Bucky's arm, running from Steve's waist down over his hips. Steve stiffens slightly as Bucky touches them, then relaxes. Feeling daring, Bucky moves his hand, spreading it to cover several of the marks. He can feel the texture of them against his palm. 

It's weird, but it's not  _that_  weird. Bucky could easily punch those scientists in the face for making Steve unhappy, but he's gotta admit that if purple spots are what Steve has in return for being healthy, for being able to breathe right and not be in pain and not almost dying every winter, then it's not all bad, even if Steve's self-conscious about them.

Steve's breathing shallowly, holding very still. "They don't hurt, do they?" Bucky asks, just to be sure.

"No," Steve says, almost a whisper.

Bucky strokes his hand down Steve's side, feeling the marks under his palm, and Steve makes a tiny noise, barely audible, that could be a good sound or a bad sound.

"Stevie?"

"It's okay," Steve says.

Okay then. Bucky does it again, a little firmer, hoping Steve can tell what he means by it, because he's not sure he could put it in words.  _It's okay_  would just be the start of it.

The next sound Steve makes is pretty clearly a good sound. Bucky presses his lips against Steve's shoulder, and keeps doing what he's doing. It occurs to him that Steve probably hasn't been touched – at least not in a good way – for at least as long as Bucky. If Bucky's too-tight, wrong-feeling skin feels good to Steve, then he can have as much of it as he wants. With that thought, he wriggles out of his shorts and helps Steve wriggle out of his, too, so they're naked under the blankets, Bucky wrapped around Steve so they are touching from head to toe.

He keeps stroking his hand down Steve's side, long easy caresses, as Steve's breaths turn to soft hums. He nuzzles against the back of Steve's neck, and Steve tips his head forward, so the tip of Bucky's nose rubs at the short hair at the nape of his neck. 

Under Bucky's fingertips, he can feel the marks standing out from the surrounding skin. The ones on his hips are the most pronounced. Bucky traces around their edges and Steve's breathing stutters. He tries the same thing again, and that's when he notices that the marks, which had been almost flat to start with, are now starting to swell under his touch, their rough surfaces becoming perfectly smooth.

"Steve," he whispers.

"Mmhmm," Steve says, and it's both an acknowledgement and an encouragement. Whatever this is, it feels good for him, and that's enough for Bucky to keep doing it.

Bucky keeps exploring, touching the bumps carefully. They keep swelling until they're almost hemispherical, the skin on them hot and silky. Bucky's surprised and a little confused to find that he's aroused – or maybe it's just the sounds Steve's making, and the way he's starting to press back against Bucky in a slow rhythm that must be almost unconscious. Bucky ghosts his fingers over the surface, from top to bottom, and realizes that his fingertips are damp. Slippery. There's something on the surface –

He quickly reaches for the light switch and pulls back the covers, blinking at the sudden glare. Steve says, "What is it?" and quickly sits up.

"You're –" Bucky's not sure what to say. He reaches out to touch the swollen protuberances at Steve's hip, which are glistening slightly in the lamp light. Steve twists to look, too, then touches them, his finger coming away with a sheen on it. He stares at it, then lifts it to sniff at it. His eyes widen, and he stares at Bucky for a moment. Bucky stares back.

"It's fine," Steve says at last, and pulls Bucky toward him, kissing him hungrily. "Turn out the light."

Bucky hits the switch and they fall back onto the bed, winding up the same way they were with Bucky spooned against Steve's back, but now Steve's pulling Bucky's hand to his dick, which is more than half-hard, and guiding Bucky's hand to give him a few easy strokes. Then Steve lets go of Bucky's hand and starts to stroke at his own hip, running his fingers over the bumps like Bucky had before, and shivering slightly at the touch. When he brings his hand back to his dick, it's slick.  _Oh, Jesus_ , Bucky thinks, and lets Steve take over jerking himself off.

There's wetness all down Steve's side, and Bucky's hand glides smoothly over it. He's got no idea what this is but it somehow reminds him of girls he's been with, the mysterious slickness, the strange texture like nothing else he's felt. It's slippery and warm and his fingers slide over the bumps and into the valleys between them, getting slicker by the moment. He tries stroking harder with his thumb, pressing against the swollen flesh and feeling it give a little under the pressure. Steve moans.

It really shouldn't be turning Bucky on like this, but whatever low hum of worry is is trying to make itself heard, it's drowned out by the sounds Steve's making. Bucky can't help himself from rubbing up against Steve. If he had an extra hand he'd take care of himself, but he's too caught up to make it a priority.

Steve shifts and Bucky's dick nudges at the gap between his thighs and – yeah, there's an idea. He collects as much slick as he can on his fingers and swipes them into the warm space between Steve's thighs, getting them as wet as he can, then slides his dick between them. Fuck, that feels good... and he's still got a hand free. He goes back to what he was doing, massaging Steve's hip as he fucks between his thighs.

Steve's noises are getting increasingly desperate, and his hand's moving fast on his dick. He comes with a choked off cry, and Bucky groans, "Oh, God," and follows him soon after. He hides his face against Steve's back and stays there through the aftershocks, until his dick slides out from between Steve's legs. He feels sticky, but he can't quite bring himself to do anything about it. Steve pulls Bucky's arm tight around his body and clings to it, breathing unsteadily. He doesn't seem ready to move yet either.

Bucky feels like he maybe ought to say something, but he can't imagine what, and the longer he thinks it over the more awkward it would be to break the silence between them. Instead he listens as Steve's breathing evens out, and soon finds himself drifting off to sleep.

He's not sure how much later it is when he wakes up with a cramp. There's a pain shooting across his back, and though he tries to move so he can stretch it out, he can't do it without disturbing Steve. He gets up as quietly as he can, sliding out from under the bedcovers and pulling them down tight again so Steve doesn't get cold. Standing barefoot on the thin rug, he contorts himself trying to reach that spot between his shoulder blades to massage the cramp away. It doesn't work. The muscles across his back feel like they're tied in knots, and his skin's got that burning feeling again.

If they were out in the field, this is when he'd take his rifle and walk out past the edge of camp, to where it was silent and dark and he could be alone with the awful feeling of dread that's welling up inside him. But they're in the middle of London, he's butt naked, and there's nowhere he can go to be alone. Instead he gropes in the dark for his duffel bag and finds a few cigarettes at the bottom, under his clean shirt. He lights one and uses the glow of the match to find his way across the room to the one wooden chair by the blacked-out window.

He can't tell how long he sits by the window after he finishes his cigarette, hugging his arms around his chest, his eyes closed tight, trying to ignore the unsettling sensations in his body. Perhaps he dozes a little. When he starts to hear movement outside, he pulls aside the dark blackout curtains and lets in the feeble, grey pre-dawn light. Steve's nothing more than a tousled head peeking out from under a mound of blankets. He stirs at the sound of Bucky moving around, and blinks sleepily.

Bucky slides in next to him, and this time he lets Steve curl around him. "You're freezing," Steve says indistinctly. Steve's body is like a furnace, almost stinging where he touches Bucky's skin, like putting cold hands too close to the fire. The warm, stuffy air under the blankets smells like both of them. Bucky dozes.

When he wakes up again properly, it's full daylight and Steve's dressed enough to go down the hallway to the bathroom without causing comment. He's gathering up his soap and razor. 

"Hey," Bucky says softly.

"Hey yourself," Steve says, and bends down to kiss him.

Breakfast at their lodgings is a noisy, communal affair. Bucky rests the toe of his shoe against Steve's under the table as they wolf down their bad coffee and powdered eggs, and jokes with a couple of GIs sitting across from them. They eat as much as they can, and then Steve has to go for more meetings at the War Office.

Bucky meets up with him in the afternoon, swaggering into Stark's lab to find Steve bending over a workbench. He can't help smirking at the view, but he regrets it when Stark catches him at it and raises his eyebrows conspiratorially. He looks _smug_ , as if what he did to Steve is something to be proud of, and Bucky clenches his fists.

"Sergeant," Stark says, oblivious. "Let me show you what I've been working on. You're gonna love it." He pulls out a standard issue rifle with a new kind of sighting mechanism on it, and talks a mile a minute about the improvements he's made. Bucky only pays him half his attention, keeping his other eye on Steve. He notices how stiff he seems, keeping at arm's length from Stark and the other scientists.

When they emerge from the underground bunker it's dark and drizzling. They pause outside a pub, the same one they'd been to the first time they came to London. The sounds of singing and laughter are coming from inside.

"We've only got a couple more days before they send us back," Steve says.

Of course. They should probably appreciate the chance for some R&R while they can. "Okay," Bucky says, trying to feel some enthusiasm for warm beer. "First round's yours."

He pushes the pub door open, but Steve grabs at his sleeve. "That's not what I meant," he says, and shifts his grip to Bucky's wrist, letting his fingertips brush against the skin under his cuff.

"Yeah?" 

"Shut the bloody door," shouts someone from inside, and Bucky steps back and lets it swing shut. In the dark street, he takes Steve's arm as they walk back to their lodgings. 

In their room, Steve crowds Bucky up against the door. It's like he's making up for the time he spent not letting Bucky near him. He kisses a little desperately, nipping at Bucky's lower lip.

"You in a hurry?" Bucky asks, wrapping his hands around Steve's waist.

"Haven't you heard there's a war on?"

"Sure, I think I heard something about that," Bucky jokes, and pulls Steve in closer. Steve's strong enough now that he can pin Bucky in place with the weight of his body if he wants to. Bucky decides he's okay with that – he goes along with it with the same feeling of reckless glee he always gets when he follows Steve into some idiotic scheme.

Steve kisses him until both their lips are red and tender, and Bucky works his hands inside Steve's shirt, burrowing down to warm skin and touching as much of it as he can. Eventually Bucky pushes away from the wall and says, "Bed." He walks Steve backwards across the room, trying to undo Steve's pants as they go. It's not the most effective way of getting undressed. Steve laughs at him, and bats his fumbling hands aside.

Somehow or other they both get naked. Bucky pushes Steve back onto the bed, then crawls up over him. Steve's skin is glowing, golden in the lamplight, the marks down his sides looking like mottled dark shadows. Bucky can't resist touching them, remembering last night. They're flat again, dry and slightly rough to the touch.

"You're really something," he says.

" _Something_."

"You know what I mean." Bucky presses his lips to the edge of the marks, where they fade out into faint speckles. He looks up through his lashes, and Steve's smiling back. 

"Mmhmm." He strokes his fingers through Bucky's hair, and Bucky leans down to kiss him again, skimming his lips over the surface of the marks.

With Steve laid out for him like this, it's hard for Bucky to resist putting his mouth on every bit of skin available to him. He takes his time, teasing his way across Steve's belly and down his thighs. Steve squirms ticklishly when Bucky tries to nip at the channel of his hip.

Now they're fooling around by lamplight instead of in the dark, Bucky can see the marks on Steve's side responding to what he's doing. The marks are getting darker in color, their rough surfaces becoming smooth as they fill out, same as Steve's dick's starting to get hard. Bucky takes a detour to nuzzle against Steve's side, investigating the undulating surface with his tongue. Up close, he can see the faint sheen of moisture starting to stand out on Steve's skin. He runs his tongue over it, tasting.

"Bucky," Steve says, his voice strained. Bucky looks up enquiringly. "You don't have to..."

"P'raps I want to."

"It's weird," Steve says, and he sounds unhappy, which is definitely not what Bucky was going for. 

He shrugs. Most people'd think it was unnatural for him and Steve to be together at all. "It's not weird to me," he says, but if Steve doesn't want him to use his mouth that way, he won't for now. There's other things he could be doing. 

"How 'bout this," he asks, and licks a stripe up the underside of Steve's dick. "Is that weird?"

Steve laughs, which is a big improvement. " _You're_ weird."

"I can live with that." 

Steve's dick's not so different from how it used to be, but it's been a while, so Bucky takes his time getting familiar again. He's not in a hurry, so he spends plenty of time reminding himself how Steve likes it, teasing at first and getting him good and wet with his tongue, then finally wrapping his lips around the head and sinking down onto it, seeing how much he can take before pulling off and going back to teasing.

Sucking dick had been weird, the first time he'd done it, the taste and the feel of it in his mouth, the way he had to interpret Steve's responses without being face to face. It'd been weird the first time someone had done it to him, too – a girl he'd been dancing with a few times, who'd dropped to her knees on the back stairs of the dance hall and left red lipstick stains all over him, while Bucky tried to figure out where to put his hands and flip-flopped wildly between excitement and terror that they'd be caught. And the first time a girl had asked him to use his mouth on her – oh boy, that was weirdest of all, putting his face into that moist, dark, hairy place and trying to find his way around without a map. In Bucky's experience, there's not much two people could get up to that's not weird the first time, and not too weird _after_ the first time.

And Steve, well, he's not usually daunted by something new. But Bucky's been through this before. Steve had always tried to make excuses for himself. He hadn't understood that Bucky was all for it, was into every part of him, scrawny and crooked and short of breath and all. It's not fair, that Steve managed to get this new body and he's _still_ ashamed of it.

Bucky rests himself on one elbow and looks up at Steve, then gently places his hand on Steve's hip. "This okay?" he asks.

It takes Steve a moment to say, "Yeah." 

Bucky dips his head and goes back to what he was doing with his mouth, while he strokes Steve's bumps with one hand. He's rewarded by a new catch in Steve's breath. Bucky tries to imagine what it must be like, to have something so inexplicable happen to his body and for it to feel _good_. If anyone deserves that, Steve does.

Bucky takes his time, pulling back when he thinks Steve's getting close, drawing it out for the pleasure of it. He thinks he could spend hours like this, not caring about the crick in his neck or the way his jaw's getting kinda sore, just for the incoherent sounds Steve makes and the way he's almost shaking under Bucky's touch.

"Please, please," Steve begs, ending on a whimper.

"What do you need?" Bucky asks, lifting his head to take in the sight of Steve flushed and panting.

"Anything. Just. I need to come."

"Let me know how you like this," Bucky says, feeling daring. His hand is wet with the fluid from Steve's side. He nudges Steve's legs apart and trails his hand down between them to rub at Steve's hole, circling round then pressing against the entrance as he wraps his lips back around Steve's dick.

"Oh, God," Steve says. His hips stutter, and he thrusts upward. Bucky keeps pressing with is fingertip, letting it slide just inside, does his best not to choke as Steve lets himself go. 

Suddenly Steve cries out, "Oh, God, Bucky – _stop!_ " 

_What the–?_ Bucky pulls off quickly. Steve scrambles away from him, crawling backwards up the bed. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Bucky says, the words tumbling over his numb lips. "Fuck, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have..." Steve's breathing hard, wide-eyed. "Tell me you're okay. Steve." 

Bucky puts his hand on Steve's ankle, half expecting Steve to pull away, but instead Steve reaches out his hand and lets Bucky grasp it. 

"What happened?" Bucky asks.

"Felt... wrong." Steve frowns. 

"Hey," Bucky says, soothingly, squeezing his hand. "I'm sorry. We don't have to do that."

Steve shakes his head. "No. It wasn't... what you did. It just felt wrong."

Bucky has no idea what that's meant to mean. "Wrong?" he asks, puzzled.

"I don't know," Steve says. "Bucky. I'm sorry. I... come here." He pulls Bucky up toward him, and they wind up with their arms wrapped around each other, legs tangled together, clinging tight. Bucky strokes Steve's back, rubbing in circles like he used to do when Steve couldn't breathe. He hopes it's as comforting for Steve as it is for him right now.

"I liked what you did with your finger," Steve says quietly. "It wasn't that."

"Okay," Bucky says. He's relieved, even if he still doesn't understand what went wrong.

"Do you... like that?" Steve sounds curious, and less spooked by whatever happened before. He's starting to unwind a bit, stroking his hand warmly against the small of Bucky's back.

"Yeah," Bucky says, and feels himself going red in the cheeks. He's glad Steve can't see from where he is. "Yeah, I do." First time someone put a finger in his ass while they'd been sucking him, he'd come like a freight train. "You could do that... if you wanted to."

"Yeah? You want me to do that while I suck you?" 

"Yeah," Bucky says, "or..." What the hell, they're getting shipped back to France soon. Might be their last chance. "You could fuck me."

Steve's hand tightens on his back. "You sure?"

"Never surer," Bucky says.

Steve's hand drops to Bucky's ass, giving it an experimental squeeze. 

"Yeah," Bucky says. "Let's do it."

"How...?"

"I guess we figure it out as we go along." Bucky's heard enough stories, and it can't be that different. "You gotta start easy though. Don't know if I can take that all at once," he says, looking down at Steve's dick. "How do you want me?"

Bucky winds up lying on his back. Steve lies over him and kisses him deeply, then pulls back just enough to look right at him and say, "God, you're so..." If there's an adjective, Bucky doesn't hear it. 

Bucky raises his knees and lets Steve settle between them. He's not as hard as he was. It's not fear, exactly, but he's nervous for sure. He gives Steve a quick reassuring grin. "So," he says. "You gotta get me good and wet."

"Wet... right." Steve looks like he's glad Bucky knows what he's doing, which is a good joke. Then he looks away, self-conscious for a moment, before he touches the swollen bumps on his hip and brings his fingers away covered with slick.

Steve's fingers feel real good in Bucky's ass. Better than he expected, even. He closes his eyes and wills himself to open up for them, pushing against Steve's hand to take them deeper. 

"Jesus, Bucky," Steve says, with wonder in his voice.

"Okay, okay," Bucky says, when he's ready. "You can. Just. Slow."

"Right," Steve says, and the fingers disappear. Bucky opens his eyes, watching as Steve slicks up his dick. He presses it against Bucky's hole. The head of it feels blunt and enormous. "You tell me if it's too much."

Bucky nods, two quick jerks of his chin, and Steve starts to press into him. Bucky's eyes widen. It's a lot, almost too much, but Steve goes slow, so slow and careful that Bucky can see the strain in the cords of Steve's arms and neck as he holds himself back. All Bucky can do is try to open to him, take him all in, until Steve's hipbones are pressed hard against Bucky's ass. 

Steve holds himself there, completely motionless. Bucky's never felt anything like it – his ass and his heart and his mind all incredibly _full_ of Steve. Steve, who's inside him. Steve, who's looking at him with a dazed expression like he doesn't know what to make of it either. 

Bucky shifts minutely, and something gives way, his body surrendering completely. "Yeah," he breathes, and rolls his hips.

"Oh, God," Steve says, and starts to move at last. Just a little at first, short careful strokes, but Bucky rises to meet him and Steve throws his head back and lets himself thrust harder, his hips snapping against Bucky with each stroke. "Fuck," he says, "oh fuck," and Bucky loves hearing him curse like that.

"Yeah, c'mon," he says.

"Fuck, oh – oh –" Steve's movements stutter, and at first Bucky thinks he's about to come, but then he sees that Steve looks shocked and afraid. 

"Steve?" he says.

"Bucky, I – I don't – what's –" He looks down, and Bucky follows his gaze. The bumps along Steve's sides are _moving_. Where they were swollen before, now they're stretching, lengthening. As Steve and Bucky watch, they extend out and start to twine around Bucky's thighs. They're slick against his skin, prehensile, sliding and gripping and holding Steve so firmly against him he couldn't pull away even if he wanted to.

"Jesus Christ," Bucky says, awed. "Steve."

Steve looks panicked. "I didn't – I'm sorry. Oh my God."

"Well  _that's_  different," Bucky laughs, a little hysterically. He reaches out a hand and touches one of the things wrapped around his thigh. It ripples under his touch, tightening its hold. "Are you doing that?" he asks.

"I... don't know," Steve says. He's frozen balls-deep in Bucky's ass, and the tentacles – that's what they are,  _tentacles_  – are all tangled around his forearms too. He lifts his hand, experimentally, and one of the tentacles comes with it, corkscrewed around his wrist. He slides his hand out from its grip, and it sways in the air between them, curling sinuously. He extends two fingers, and the tentacle extends to meet them. 

"That... that was me," he says. He turns his hand palm-side up, and the tentacle slides over it, caressing the flat of his palm, then stroking his fingers. 

"Steve," Bucky says, slightly desperate, because they were  _in the middle of something_. "Please." At that, Steve pulls away, the tentacles around Bucky's legs loosening their hold. "Don't you  _dare_ ," Bucky says, and hooks his heels around Steve's butt to pull him closer. "Jesus, Rogers, just... don't stop. This is fine. This is..." He pauses, and reaches out, stroking a tentacle, wrapping his hand around it and pulling it toward him. "It's good."

Steve looks shocked. He's frozen for a moment, a questioning look on his face as he tries to make out what Bucky's thinking. It shouldn't be that hard to figure out. Bucky's pretty sure there's never been a time he hasn't wanted every bit of Steve. Sometimes it just takes an effort to pound it into Steve's thick skull.

"C'mon," Bucky says, trying for something between soothing and encouraging, like he's trying to coax a cat down from a tree. He glides his hand along the length of the tentacle, from the thick base to the tip that's no wider than his little finger, pulling firmly enough to feel the strength of it. Steve gives a full-body shiver. "How's that feel? Good?"

"Yeah," Steve says, and Bucky does it again, then lets Steve twine around his wrist and explore his hand with the tentacle, sliding between his fingers.

"So," Bucky says, "How about this?" He guides Steve's tentacle to his dick. "Can you jerk me off with it?"

"Oh... God, yes," Steve says, and curls it around him, looping around several times. 

Bucky thrusts upward into the warm slippery pressure. Steve's other tentacles tighten again around his thighs, stopping him from moving too much, while the tentacle on Bucky's dick pulses and slithers around him, and another joins it, curling lazily around his balls. 

Bucky's still got Steve's dick up his ass, which he wouldn't have thought was something he could easily forget, but it's only when he tightens around it and feels how full he is that he realizes how close he is to coming. "Steve, Steve," he says, "Don't – I'm too close."

The coil of tentacle around the base of Bucky's dick tightens, holding him motionless, just this side of painful. Steve gives a crooked grin, and says, "Okay." Bucky manages to catch his breath and come back from the edge. "God, Bucky, you're... you're really something," Steve says, echoing Bucky's earlier words. He doesn't loosen his grip or let Bucky move an inch, but two other tentacles slide away from Bucky's thighs and up his sides, smooth and gentle, caressing him. 

"Okay, okay. Wow." Bucky looks down at the tentacles, the contrast in color against the paleness of his own skin and the slight sheen they leave where they've touched him. "Okay," he says again, now he's calmer. "You can..." Even though he can't move much, he can clench his ass then let go, feeling his unpracticed muscles fluttering around Steve's dick. 

Steve groans. He rolls his hips, pressing deep into him, draws back out, and pauses. "I want to make it feel good for you," he says.

"It does. Keep going." Bucky tries to lift his hips, shameless, chasing after that fullness. Steve's tentacles resist at first and then, oh god, they're helping him, holding him up and cradling him so his ass is off the mattress and his legs spread even wider, his ankles somewhere up around Steve's ears. Steve rocks minutely, giving Bucky just a taste of what he really wants, and it's enough to make him want to scream. 

"Fuck, fuck," he says, "please, will you just..."

And – holy shit, that's one of Steve's tentacles, slithering around his hole, the slender tip of it slicking him up again, tracing his rim where it's stretched around Steve's dick. Steve starts to push deeper, his dick sliding easily, his tentacle nudging wetly alongside it. Bucky makes himself as open as he can, tries to draw Steve further into him, until Bucky feels like each stroke is splitting him into pieces, striking sparks inside him, making him gasp and cry out. Steve loosens the tentacle around Bucky's dick and slides it around him, stroking his length, saying Bucky's name over and over, and Bucky lets go and falls apart.

He's just faintly aware that Steve follows him straight over the edge, every tentacle tightening convulsively as he empties himself inside Bucky. Bucky's barely stopped seeing stars when Steve pulls out, leaving Bucky feeling so empty he could cry. He lets out a disappointed whimper.

"Sorry, sorry," says Steve, reaching to cup Bucky's cheek with his hand, and Bucky turns his face to kiss it. "Are you okay?" 

"I'm good," Bucky says shakily. "So good."

Steve loosens the tentacles around Bucky's thighs, settling him back on the mattress. Bucky's legs feel heavy, like lead, or rubber, or rubbery lead. He's not too sure. The tentacles stroke him soothingly across his thighs and abdomen, and a couple dip between his legs to trace feather-soft around his hole. He's sensitive, and a bit tender, and he's not sure if he's imagining that he can feel Steve's come dripping out of him, or whether it's just the tentacles' slick.

"How's that feel?" Steve asks.

"'S'nice."

Steve strokes Bucky's hair off his face. "Good," he says, and one of his tentacles dips inside Bucky's ass, circling, examining.

"Oh, God." Bucky twitches, and Steve soothes him, stroking his hips until he settles.

"Too much?"

Bucky considers. The tip of Steve's tentacle is just at his entrance, lax, waiting for his answer. The one that was curled around his dick is... still curled around his dick, and Bucky realizes he's barely softened since he came. "No," he says, throwing caution to the wind, "Not too much."

Steve takes him at his word, sliding his tentacle past Bucky's rim. It slips in easily, coated with its own fluid, and Bucky can feel it twisting inside him. It's not a full feeling like Steve's cock stretching him open, but it's touching places he didn't know he could feel. Bucky finds himself breathing shallowly, not moving, all his focus on the sensation of Steve's tentacle in his ass.

"Oh," Steve says, enthralled. "Wow." 

"Yeah, wow," Bucky agrees, a little breathlessly. "What's it feel like?"

"Hot," is all Steve says, and pushes more of his tentacle inside. It's smooth, but it pulses as it goes in, and Bucky's ass twitches, tightening in response.

Steve's other tentacles, which had been gently draped across Bucky's body, start to slide and rub against his skin as well, seeking out the crevices and warm places. Some slither down to rub behind Bucky's balls, one slides slickly along his ass-crack, and another's just tucked in behind Bucky's bent knee, sliding back and forth, for all the world like Steve's slowly jerking off with it. Steve's not moving other than his tentacles – he's just kneeling over Bucky, supporting himself on one hand. His eyes are glazed over.

"Hey," Bucky says, "You want me to do anything, or just lie here?"

"Oh," Steve says, and blinks. He pauses, the tentacles stilling in their movements.

"C'mon, gimme one of those," Bucky says, offering his hand, and Steve slides one of his tentacles into it. 

Bucky's instinct is to stroke it like he'd stroke Steve's dick. It turns out to be a pretty good instinct. At first it's awkward, trying to manage the length of it, then Steve starts to work with him, pushing his tentacle through the loose circle of Bucky's fingers as he strokes one way and retracting as he pulls back.

Bucky grins, and another tentacle brushes against his lower lip. He lets his mouth fall open and extends his tongue. Steve touches it gently, just the slightest contact, like he wants to make sure of the invitation Bucky's giving him. Bucky lifts his head from the pillow so he can take the end of the tentacle into his mouth, curling his tongue around it and giving it a good hard suck. Seems like that's a clear enough invitation, because the tentacle in Bucky's mouth starts to writhe in response, and suddenly all Steve's other tentacles are getting back in the game too, and Steve is _everywhere_ , deep inside Bucky and wrapped around him and rubbing slickly against all his most sensitive places.

It's overwhelming, almost more than Bucky can deal with, but then he catches sight of Steve's face. Steve's obviously completely carried away, lost in the sensations he's feeling, his face showing something between shock and fascination. What it must be like for him, to have all these new surfaces, raw and untouched and feeling the world for the first time?

The first time Steve was transformed, they made him into something to serve their purposes. Even as they made him healthy, they turned him into a weapon and brought him into this hell when he should've been safe at home. This time round, Bucky swears, he won't let anyone else near Steve, won't let them use him like that. His heart swells with a rush of fierce protectiveness, a desperate need to wash away all the shame and discomfort Steve's been carrying around, hidden under his uniform, since he stepped out of that lab. 

He squirms in Steve's embrace, moving against the tentacles as they twist around his body, offering as much of himself as he can, letting Steve engulf him and fill him and possess him. His own pleasure curls tight in his stomach but he pushes it down, holds himself back so that Steve can take what he needs.

Steve's moaning, heedless of the noise he's making, his eyes fluttering closed. His dick is standing hard and leaking between them, untouched. Steve's so lost in everything else that's happening that his orgasm takes him by surprise. He cries out, and spurts his release across the tangle of tentacles wrapped around Bucky's body. 

Steve falls forward, his tentacles going lax. He's shaking. Bucky reaches his arms around Steve's body to embrace him, smoothing his hands across Steve's back, holding him tight. He twists his head to one side, letting Steve's tentacle slide out of his mouth, so he can say, "Hey, you're all right." Steve whimpers against his shoulder. 

Bucky doesn't mean to move, but he didn't come yet, and Steve's hot and slippery and still inside him. It's hard to ignore. He presses his hand against the small of Steve's back and pushes his dick up into the mess of slick tentacles between their bodies.

"You didn't..." Steve mumbles.

"Working on it," Bucky says. "You just stay there."

Steve's tentacles pulse feebly in response, but Bucky doesn't need Steve to do anything. He's been holding it back long enough – his orgasm's right there, waiting, and he lets it catch him and tow him under.

They're all kinds of sticky, afterwards, but Bucky – as the one who doesn't have extra limbs that might need explaining – manages to clean himself up enough to scurry down the hall and wet a couple of washcloths to deal with the worst of it. The sheets are a nightmare, but the other bed is still pristine, so they fall sleepily into that one. Steve wraps himself around Bucky, his arm curled tight across Bucky's chest, his tentacles draped warmly over the rest of him.

Steve's breath is steady, but he's not asleep. Bucky knows him well enough that he can almost hear the gears turning in his head.

"You're still you," Bucky whispers into the darkness. Steve doesn't respond. "Whatever happens, you're still that little guy from Brooklyn. You're still that guy."

In the morning, Steve's tentacles are gone, and his skin is once again covered in rough, purple marks.

  


* * *

  


Back behind enemy lines again, Bucky doesn't have much time to think about what's happened to both of them. Bucky's still not right, still can't shake off whatever got inside him on that lab table at Azzano, but they're run too ragged for him to spend much time brooding over it. Now, when he wakes up in the night, he curls against Steve and tries to get back to sleep if he can. He needs all he can get, all the rest and all the rations his body can burn through.

Steve lets Bucky touch him now, the casual contact he'd been missing, an arm flung around him or hips bumping together sitting by the campfire. At night in their tent, it's too cold and too dangerous to get naked, but Bucky can push Steve's trousers down and stroke the bumps on his hips, jerk him off, make him come quietly with face tucked into the crook of his arm to stifle his moans. Bucky fantasizes about finding an abandoned farmhouse, getting a room with a roof over their heads and a door that shuts so that Steve can let go and touch Bucky like he wants to be touched, inside and out.

There's no abandoned farmhouse. Instead there's a gruelling march into the mountains on the Austrian border, and the sort of cold that stabs right through his woollen clothes and makes his usual aches feel twice as bad.

Then they're leaping onto a goddamned train as it races through the mountains, probably the most reckless stunt they've tried so far. At least the air inside feels comparatively still and warm. Almost makes up for being shot at. But he's separated from Steve, and then he's out of ammo, and on top of everything else there's a stabbing pain like someone's twisting a knife between his shoulder blades and a feeling that something horrible is creeping down the back of his neck, under his jacket. He ducks behind a row of crates, presses his back against the wall, and tries to get himself under control. 

Steve bursts through the door and the party starts again. For a moment it's like old times, the two of them standing together against some bully. Then Steve's knocked flat and Bucky grabs his shield, holds it in front of him when the HYDRA goon fires. For a brief moment he's delighted at the way the shield deflects the blast before the force of it throws him out of the gaping hole in the side of the train.

He can't hang on. Pain shoots up his arms, and even as he tries to reach for Steve's hand, Bucky's shoulders cramp and his arm spasms. The metal creaks and tears, and he's falling, falling.

He's going to die, he knows it. He's meant to be seeing his life flash before his eyes but the only things in his mind are  _NO_  and  _Steve_  and pain, so much pain. Why is there pain when he's still falling? The blast didn't hit him, he hasn't hit the ground yet, so why – why does it – his body feels like it's being ripped apart. A cry is forced from his lungs, echoing off the mountainsides. He can feel his body breaking, hear something tearing, a sense of horrible wrongness and he tumbles endlessly into the glare of white –

.

.

.

Bucky gains consciousness slowly and painfully. He's face-down in snow, the sharp crusted kind, jabbing into his skin. He doesn't know how long he's been there, but he's shivering with cold, and he can feel the icy air slicing through him.

When he tries to roll over, a jagged spike of pain shoots up his arm. It's bent at an unnatural angle and a shard of bone protrudes through his sleeve, blood soaking around the tear in the fabric. He rolls the other way and something obstructs him. A weight, awkwardly pressing on his back. He pushes up against it, and there's a movement in his peripheral vision that quickly blurs to grey as his vision darkens. He slumps back into the snow. 

The second time, he takes stock before he tries to move. His left arm is fucked, and there's something pretty wrong with his left ankle. His back feels raw, like his coat was torn away, and he can't even make out what the weight across his shoulders is. He opens his eyes slowly, take a deep breath, gets his right arm under him and pushes himself up onto all fours – well, all threes, he supposes. There's a dark movement on either side of him, and a soft shush of something brushing against the snow. 

He turns his head. He can't make sense of the shape that's arching over him, spreading out to his side. It shifts as he turns toward it. All he can see is a dark silhouette against the white glare, and he has to wait for his eyes to adjust before he can make out the details: a smooth surface with a faint metallic sheen, twisted into a shape that doesn't look like anything he recognises. There are faint lines on the surface or, no, cracks, like it's made of carefully machined plates fitted together. But it's delicate, more delicate than any machinery he's seen in Stark's lab or in any of the HYDRA bases they've raided.

He pulls himself up to his knees, bracing to feel the weight of the thing on his back, but it moves as he does. He reels a little, still woozy from his fall, and the dark thing – 

Unfolds. 

He feels it. In whatever bit of his brain knows where his own hands are, he can feel this thing. These things. These... parts of him. He stretches them out, feels the movement of the muscles and the pull of them against his shoulder blades. Feels the cold seeping in through the ripped tatters of his coat, feels eddies of air rippling against the – _things_ – as he extends them. He curves them forward, into his line of sight, so he can look. 

The plates – is that even the word? – move over each other, shifting and catching the light like scales on a fish, like... like feathers on a bird's wing. They're nothing like feathers, except for how they're  _exactly_  like feathers, and these things are exactly like wings, because that's what they  _are_.

His vision greys out again, but Bucky's not sure whether that's actually unconsciousness or just his mind rebelling at the sheer insanity of what seems to have happened. All these months, feeling something wrong inside him, and he was growing... this?

He hears voices. Shouts, the sounds of a patrol. He's out in the open, at the bottom of a ravine somewhere in HYDRA territory, and he's a sitting duck. He can't get caught here. 

Without knowing quite how he does it, he presses  _down_  with his wings, pushing against the air to lift himself to his feet. Another strong push, tensing and releasing the muscles that have been cramping and waking him in the night, and he knows this is what they were meant for, this is why they were aching – they were meant to be working, meant to stretch and push against the air, lifting him above the snow, above the ravine, above the rim of the mountains.

He cradles his broken arm against his chest, squints into the sun to get his bearings, and sets his course for the nearest Allied base.


End file.
